It was always quiet in the lab. Even the tiniest sound resounded like a gunshot, echoing again and again. When he would drop his pen, it was like the ringing of a gong. The silence could be a bit unnerving, sometimes. But he had learned to manage.
He would listen to his own footsteps as he made his way about the place. It reeked of sterilization and formaldehyde, but he had grown accustomed to it. What good would complaining do, after all? No one would hear him.
He was lonely, sometimes.
And when he felt his chest muscles contracting with the sharp pain of each hideous-sounding cough, no one heard his cries. Nobody saw the tiny drops of blood that dripped from his lips and splashed onto the sparkling floor.
He would run his hand over the glass, starting into the empty, soulless eyes of the creature floating in the fluid behind it. That twisted, grotesque, unliving thing.
And he would think, that's me.
Sometimes, he would feel sick. Not the pain he usually felt, but nauseous. He would wonder what would happen if he couldn't perfect the homunculus. What would happen if he was faced with death, or worse—what if he found himself trapped in the body of something...not human? His fears sickened him.
But he never stopped. He'd keep working and working and working.
Because he didn't want to die.
There were times when he felt tired, or spent, or empty. There were times when he wondered, why? If he went on living, who would be there to be happy about it?
Then he'd feel it. A brush of soft fur against his leg, some small amount of warmth to remedy the crisp chill of the laboratory. And he'd lift his cat into his arms and smile at it, and he would gently pet its head. He would listen as the sound of the creature's soft purring soothed his worn nerves. It would mewl, and he would talk to it—it was the only time he would ever speak.
"You're my only friend, Pharaoh," he would say.
Then he'd set the animal back on the ground and return to his work.